What Happened in So Habor, or the Spymaster and the Lady
by Dobraine
Summary: Perrin hunts for his abducted wife, and supplies run low. They make a supply run at a walled town called So Habor, but something's wrong. The dead walk, and worse. Perrin leaves, but Sebban Balwer stays to meet his contact, and returns three days later with Talanvor. But what happened in So Habor? Direct RJ quotes in italics.
1. Chapter 1

The town of Kilramir had changed nationality no less than seven times in the past century. It had been part of Ghealdan, part of Amadicia, it had even been a part of Altara. The townsfolk had, for the past decade, been a part of Amadicia, but everyone kept a Ghealdan flag in their attics just in case. When Sebban Balwer had been born, it had been a part of Ghealdan. Kilramir had been sacked, burned, raized, rebuilt, tripled in size, stripped for conscription, and had half of its masonry stolen to use in neighboring Sienda. For a town that no one save a local would know, it had seen much. The Kilramese had a saying, "You can eat your eggs in Ghealdan, and your beef in Amadicia, but whatever you do, eat them now."

Sebban Balwer's sire had taught him his letters, having done the accounts for Barston's Butcher, old Miss Addie's Fine Cheeses, half a dozen other Kilramese businesses, as well as the Mayor himself. But Balwer didn't take to numbers. It wasn't that he couldn't do them, but that they only told part of the story.

At the age of 13, he had discovered that Mayton Fairweather had been operating a shadow gambling business (gambling being illegal in Amadicia, as was everything else that was fun) out behind his General Store. It was the books that told him one and one were making eight. But it was following Mayton's son, Bale, coming back from Goddard's with half a dozen bottles of his famous, Clear Barn Peeler, that told him what was going on. When it turned out that the Sherrif was Mayton's biggest customer, and that he had spent half of his deputy fund on dice, Balwer had enjoyed a brief moment as a local hero. The moment faded when they learned that the Sherrif's debt was the only thing keeping the local toughs from collecting from the fund itself, and that once the sherrif was gone, the toughs began collecting from the townspeople themselves. Balwer's brief popularity had ended, the Sherrif was found in a pool of his own vomit somewhere in a hell in Mardecin, was sobered up and reinstated.

It was soon after that the young Sebban Balwer left Kilramir, having learned three valuable lessons. The first, if you piss off the Sheriff, make damn sure he never returns, the second, first look at the numbers, then look at the space in between, and the third, never be a hero. And those rules had been guiding precepts for him for his entire life.

If he could manage to instruct even one of these idiots from Cha Faile on these rules, they might actually make something of themselves.

With a sigh, Balwer straightened, and put the nib down on the small foldable writing table he kept among his possessions. Lamgwin snored on the ground, not four feet away. Space was at a premium, and the party was lucky that Lord Aybara had been able to spare them a tent at all. The Two Rivers men, slept under the stars for the most part.

That odious woman, Breane Taborwin, would be back from serving the Lord soon, and she would demand he snuff the candle that allowed Balwer to write his letters. She was pretty in a way, he supposed, but her personality made lemon juice seem sweet. Plus she made Morgase light up like a torch, and no man wanted that.

He sighed, poor Morgase. He felt no affection for the woman, for all they had been traveling companions these past months. But being taken by the Shaido, with Faile, Alliandre and the rest of Cha Faile, must be a great hardship. Edarra and the other Wise Women worked their apprentices to the bone, he knew from his reports that the Shaido were far far worse with their captives. He had kept the bulk of this information from his new Lord. Not that he wouldn't have told him, had the information become relevant, but Aybara's relentless pursuit of his wife, Faile, made captive by the Shaido, made him reckless, and such details would only drive the man mad. It was the job of a secretary to make such decisions for his superiors. He still fancied himself such, though Cha Faile had taken to calling him _Jenn Ti'Vron_, literally, True to Watch, less literally, He Who Sees, and with a twist to the mouth, Spymaster.

His thin lips, tightened further in disgust. He had controlled a network of diligent information gatherers for over two decades, and remained completely obscured. These foppish fools threatened to expose his activities to the world. Of course, he had managed to use Omerna, the Whitecloak "Spymaster" with great effectiveness. All up into the day that great big oaf plunged his sword into his oldest and only friend, the Lord Captain Commander, Pedron Niall. He was distracted, he hadn't let himself think about his time in the Fortress of Light since his untimely exodus.

They weren't all bad, several of them showed promise. Selande Darengil was one such. A remarkably intelligent woman, for one who was so strikingly beautiful. Of course, if she was anything like the rest of the beautiful women he had met, she'd probably lose her head over some fool, and that would be the end of what could be an excellent career in the information services. Yes, Selande was an interesting woman. She had been a catspaw to the deceased Lady Colavaere, a minor vassal and third daughter to House Darengil, and sworn to House Saighan. Had events played out differently, she might have made an excellent marriage to House Taborwin, or perhaps Riatin. Riatin was down right now, but the Game of Houses was timeless and what was down today could be up a decade from now. Why the lords of Cairhien had allowed their young to join these Societies was beyond Balwer. A child was an asset, an asset was to be used to protect, gain, and grow the House. Allowing these assets to join such a perilous quest, was a quick way to end up broke.

His exhaustion was showing in the way his thoughts kept scattering. Selande. Unlike many of the noble born ladies in Cha Faile, she had shown unusual maturity. He guessed that she had been asked to do some odious things in Colavaere's employ, since she was not afraid to enter the gutter when the work demanded it, or to use her feminine wiles to gain an advantage. Something some of her stiffnecked Tairen peers, would never consider. She was also particularly fearless in the face of danger. A good quality for a soldier perhaps, but fear kept a spy alive.

He was going through a written report from Selande, done in her precise hand, and in the cipher he had taught her. To any but him, the letter read like the inventory of a cloth seller's shop. To him, it detailed precise numbers in the Prophet's armada, the number of captains, his personal body guard, his list of disciples. It also detailed an interesting tidbit, something that he would have to share with Aybara. His young bodyguard, the former tinker, had been seen in earnest discussion with Vascilli the Barber, and Margaux Whoresbane, two of Masema's most zealous disciples. Vascilli was no barber, he'd earned the name from the collection of ears he wore, and the razor sharp barber's blades he kept in various portions of his dress. Whoresbane, had personally raped and murdered at least two dozen unmarried women for carrying on with men before marriage. She was a particularly nasty piece of work, Whoresbane. The boy was being turned. But he doubted Perrin would listen to him. He had a soft spot for the young tinker, since his family had disowned him. He would have to assign someone to watch Aram, even as Aram had been assigned to watch Masema. It would be dangerous work.

Selande poked her head into the tent.

"Come" he said, in his accustomed rasp.

The short woman moved soundlessly into the room. She wore her sword around her waist, a rapier. Her dark hair hung in waves down to her shoulders, framing a delicate face with large lips and large liquid eyes. She had grey trousers and a doublet of a mossy green. For all that it was a man's article of clothing, she wore it well, and made it somehow accentuate her curves without trying. He covered a moment's shock. He hadn't noticed a woman's curves in well over a decade!

She came in, and crouched low. Looking at Lamgwin and glancing back into Balwer's eyes.

"He could sleep through the Breaking." He paused, "an excellent report, Miss Darengil. The news about young Aram will go straight to the Lord himself. Fine detail within, I particularly note that you counted raiding parties and wagon carts. One point of advice, put the most important parts at the top of the report. I will read it all, of course, but if it were timely, I should have the prurient details at hand."

She beamed, and nodded thoughtfully at his criticism.

"Let's see, have the scouts returned? The Asha'man, or the Aiel? Any word on Berelain's thieftakers? Yesterday you observed correctly that the quartermaster had shortchanged the Winged Guards, on leather for new boots. But did you notice that he was also shorting the Two Rivers men on grains? He nearly tripled the price of lentils. You noted also that Lacile had quarreled with Arrela again, and indicated that you thought it to be because Arrela was Tairen, and Lacile a Cairhienien like yourself. That was looking beyond the immediate, which is good, but unnecessary in this case. Sometimes the obvious answer is indeed the only answer. Arrela used Lacile's bedroll three nights past, and returned it with a rank odor. See to it that Arrela wash more frequently, perfume only goes so far. Go ahead."

Selande drank in his words, dry as they were, her large eyes staring at the small man intently. Unconsciously, she put a hand in her hair, brushing it back. He didn't know why she bothered, it was perfect as it was.

"Lord Aybara still chafes for word. He's not eating, and Latian tells me that the two hours he sleeps a night, the man is completely comatose, the tent could fall in on him and he wouldn't move. The Asha'man are back, but bring no word. But the man Elyas Machera and two Maidens have returned. They bring word: the Shaido have been found!"

Balwer startled visibly. Here he was noticing Selande's hair at a time like this! She continued to outline the news to Balwer, then he made her go through literally every word that had been said. She had a good memory, it had only taken a few lessons for her to grasp the importance of remembering words precisely. "I said, start with the lead girl!" Selande colored.

Balwer sketched out a series of orders. Some of which had been lining up, others of which he spun off the top of his head, relating to the news that the Shaido were camped outside of Malden in Central Western Altara. When finished he made her repeat them back to him. Then he asked her:

"Cha Faile is yours, who would you send?"

Selande blinked, this was the first time he had asked her opinion. She colored again. She seemed sometimes to lose control of her features around him. He supposed it was because he was her supiorior, even though he was a self appointed one. But the answers came quickly, he suppressed a moment's pride, as he listened.

"Arrela will go to the Quartermaster, he has a thing for smelly women," Balwer didn't budge, or smile, but she could tell by the glint in his eye he appreciated the jest. "I'll send Paralean to the blacksmith to inquire about the pike problem. He has an easy way about him, and I fear we may need him soon, so I don't want to send him far off. Barmanes and Camaille will be good to send to Rubyford, the townsfoalk will adore the brother and sister team. Carlon will go to Elyas, he's a bit of a sycophant by nature, and so Elyas will see it immediately and dismiss him…"

She continued down the line. Overall he was impressed, she knew the strengths and weaknesses of her people and how best to apply them. He approved her assignments for the most part, merely switching around Haviar and Nerion. She wasn't wrong in her assignments, but he believed it was important for a subordinate to always believe her superior knew something she did not. Also, as he was grooming her for command, he thought it an interesting test to see if she would fight for her choices or simply capitulate.

She did not, merely pursed her lips and waited for an explanation. When none was forthcoming she simply acquiesced. Disappointing, but she was young yet. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand. Breane would be back any moment now.

Seconds after Selande's departure, the tent flat flew open to admit the wide shouldered giant, Lord Perrin Aybara of Emond's Field.

"Someone needs to gut Masema like a pig on Winternight." The young lord growled.


	2. Chapter 2

The small man, shrugged diffidently, and arched an eyebrow at the blacksmith turned Lord.

"Indeed, I'm sure there are many people who would like nothing better. If my lord would permit—"

Balwer knew that Aybara was merely venting his rage and would never consent to a politically expedient assassination, but it was not an opportunity to be missed. Particularly if the Spymaster could make it seem as if he had misunderstood, later, when the raving lunatic was properly garroted 'Oh, my lord, I thought you'd asked…" He signed inwardly, he knew his new lord well enough to know he would not fall for such a ploy. Not unless his conscious self was completely incapable of dealing with the situation.

"What? Oh, of course not. No, Balwer, I told the Aes Sedai, Berelain, and the Wise Ones all the same thing, and if I have to repeat it again with—"

"Of course, my lord. I understand we have a direction and a purpose now, my lord? Your wife was found? I'm ecstatic." He seemed, of course, completely unchanged, "Malden is a larger town, but I've been there several times and could sketch it for you if it would help"

In spite of himself, Perrin looked impressed. "Is there anywhere you haven't been Balwer?"

"Tremalking, my lord. The Islands of the Dead, fabled Shara, the Aiel Waste, the Aryth Ocean …my ignorance is nothing less than staggering."

Perrin looked sharply at him, plainly wondering if Balwer were making fun of him. "Simply the truth, my lord." And it was. Balwer had worked with Niall for close to fifteen years, and had met many of his emissaries personally. Particularly when his informants couldn't leave. And, when a man made it his business to know, he made it his business to know – first hand.

"Lord Aybara, if there was something in particular?" He shrugged casually at Lamgwin, who had turned over ostentatiously in his sleep.

The young man colored, his humble nature, as ever appealed to Balwer, who himself had grown up, a man of low beginnings in a forgotten part of the world.

"So Habor. You know of it?" He said softly.

"Yes, my lord, a walled town, about twenty-five leagues from here. They predominantly export grain mostly, but the town is fairly wealthy, and the local lord is a vain man, who has amassed a fine collection of wines, and as such, they do a fair trade in luxury items as well." He clicked his tongue, "grain, of course. My lord, I must humbly apologize. This new world of gateways, makes places that seemed inaccessible, well… otherwise I would have –"

Perrin chuckled, "I barely believe it myself sometimes. Not to worry. I …" the young man paused, drawing inward, almost afraid, "I should have asked, weeks ago. I'm afraid I'm not myself without Faile."

Balwer was not a sentimental man, and the sort of deep, abiding affection the lord had for his lady, was rare, not to mention, completely out of Balwer's perview. There wasn't much Balwer could say. He was never one for 'slapping a man on the back'. He tried a different tack.

"My lord, you are the man that you are. And you were yourself, long before you met Lady Faile. Nonetheless, you needn't over worry yourself, Master Gill and myself have made the necessary arrangements to facilitate your search." He paused, "nonetheless, if you have a mind to restock, So Habor would be the place to do so."

"I'm glad to hear it, when Masema suggested it…"

"You suspected a trap."

"Or worse. If he had done to So Habor what he's done to half of Ghealdan…" The large man clenched his fists.

"My lord, So Habor is, as the Prophet says, a town of grain, and a town of laws. It's a walled keep, capable of sustaining itself against a horde, even one as large as Masema's."

Perrin sighed deeply. "Good. I guess, we'll let Lamgwin sleep." He paused on his way to the tent flap. "Tallanvor is still gone?"

"Aye, my lord."

Perrin was silent a moment, then, "sometimes I envy him." And with that, the burly man opened the flap and let himself out.

The light had almost fallen completely, and the only light was Balwer's writing candle. Lord Aybara was unlike any man Balwer had ever served. Before Niall, he had served at the court in Amador, and even before then, he had served the Counsels in Far Madding. He had known, lords, ladies, nobles of all shades and types. He had also known merchant princes, and the thirteen Counsels of Far Madding, who certainly considered themselves to be merchant queens. He had known generals, and even terrorists. A merchant's importance came from his wealth, regardless of how it was obtained. A king's authority was absolute, either by the Creator, force of arms, or the acclamation of his people. And a general's authority came by his reputation for winning. Where then did Perrin's authority come from?

The boy claimed it came from yet another boy, the Dragon Reborn. But there again, his humble nature asserted itself. No, his authority came from within. It came from the Wolf King himself. It was his nobility. And, Balwer noted to himself, he was forced to remember that the term itself had nothing to do with birth, or wealth, or family. It had to do with character, with spirit. Balwer was nearing his fifth decade, and he felt his bones creak in the winter, and griped about the heat in the summer. But around a man like Aybara, he felt ten years younger. He felt, possibly for the first time in ten years, like his work actually mattered. It was invigorating, it was intoxicating. And, he suspected that everyone, from that hot air balloon, Arganda, the commander of the Ghealdan troops, to the meanest cook in the Two Rivers camp, that everyone felt the same. He sighed. Such thoughts were for younger men than himself.

So Habor, Marcus Grostlby lived in So Habor. It had been almost a year since the man had submitted a report. Perhaps it would be worth a trip, if only to renew an old acquaintance. He would go himself, he would take Medore, and he would take Latian. The one, because it was good to have an attractive woman on any venture, and because he could not allow himself to become distracted with Selande, and the second, because he was an idiot, and needed to be watched at all times. And with that, he snuffed the candle, the instant that Breane whisked into the tent. Not quite soon enough. He'd catch an earful before retiring for the night.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning was grey, but the camp bustled with activity. Laitian was fetching a horse for Balwer, while the small man gathered his things for the trip. Lord Aybara had rustled up over two dozen wagons and carts, some guards, drivers, carters, the Asha'man Neald, Masuri and Seonid Sedai, Gallenne, and Lady Berelain herself. All for the trek into So Habor. The procession must have been Berelain's idea. Balwer guessed that if it'd been merely Perrin, he would have taken ten carts and his Two Rivers lads to round up food from the local markets. He approved, though he was rueful, the woman was too efficient by half. By rights, this trip should have been organized by Master Gill, and thus organized by Balwer himself. What good a secretary, if such arrangements were out of his hands? Nevertheless, he knew that if he went with the men trading for grain, he would have to stay. And he viewed rounding up a delinquent informant as one of his paramount tasks.

You never knew, thought Balwer, once someone's 'eyes and ears,' it became a habit with most people. And when you received two silver pieces per message, it paid to send as many messages as possible. Some of Balwer's agents worked for Tar Valon itself. If Niall had known that, he would have brought them in, and wrung them out. Not torture, that was not Niall's way, but he would want to be sure of such people, and if that required a little of "Fear of the Light," so be it. But Balwer had known that such men were useful. They weren't turncloaks, because they had no allegiance whatsoever. And such repositories were fabulous assets. Most Tar Valon informants worked for someone else half the time. The Aes Sedai were confident, and their pride was such that it was difficult to conceive of one of their "eyes and ears" earning an extra copper or two for sending on the same bit of information to Andor, Amador, or even the Seanchean. But when an informant went silent, it could be ominous. It could mean that any instructions you'd left with him could be exposed. It could ruin an entire theatre of operations.

Balwer turned his attention to his pack. Everything was there. He kept two lockpicks, the one he kept for daily use, and the good set. The good set came in a clever wooden box that opened up when pressed with two fingers from each hand in a particular spot. The good set had tools for opening all but the toughest, most uncommon locks. Balwer felt no shame about owning the tool most central to the thief's trade. After all, he had never stolen a penny in his life. It just so happened that all the best secrets lay beyond locked doors, at the bottom of old drawers, in clever boxes not unlike the one that filled his own pack.

Next, he eyed about two dozen bottles and jars. His hands moved quickly among them, making sure each lid was tightly affixed. Some of the jars had poisons in them, others were paints, and still others had the most unusual properties. The most deadly poison he carried on him, was Widow's Wort, a root, that once ground became an odorless, tasteless, fine gray powder. It killed within a few seconds of ingestion, causing the drinker's throat to seize and swell immediately, choking him with his own innate immune response. Other drugs were much less dangerous, though frequently as odd. One such compound, a clear, odorless liquid, turned everything it touched a brilliant pink. Others were antidotes to several of the most common poisons. Balwer was thorough, and those first few moments following the introduction of a poision to the body were precious. Always better to be prepared.

He kept an even smaller version of his letter box, with various inks stoppered within. He kept the most current code to his cipher in a small black leather journal. Various maps went into the pack, as well as a cowl he could slip over his head in a pinch.

He took only two weapons, one a thin dirk. Its hilt was twisted up and could be used to break a sword thrust, and the blade narrow and sharp enough to fit through the exposed areas of plate-mail. Balwer was not trained in sword work, nor did he know the first thing about the spear, the axe, or the lance. Such weapons were for soldiers. Though he was not, himself an assassin, his work during the Troubles, had required him to be a quiet and effective killer. In addition to the dagger, and the poisons, he kept a small long cord, coiled, tied on either end with a small piece of wood. Balwer didn't like killing. It seemed a waste of perfectly good information. But his work had required it from time to time, and he had slipped that noose around the necks of quite a few people, even Aes Sedai. His primary employer had, after all been the Whitecloaks, until last year.

When Niall had found him, he'd still been with the Counsels in Far Madding. The work was rigorous there, but the people of Far Madding never left, save to trade, and their world perspective was therefore myopic. No small town in the remotest region of the continent could manage the type of arrogance an extremely wealthy city-state could, and an outsider, even one who had lived there for years, was always an outsider. So when Niall had offered to take him into service, he had accepted.

He remembered that day well. He and a party of guards had ridden to the outskirts of the territory controlled by Far Madding, and truthfully, into territory that had been completely abandoned for well over a hundred years, the lands connecting the Plains of Maredo and the Kintara Hills. Niall had been separated from the larger Whitecloak armies, and was riding hard across the southern tip of Murandy, with a small force of cavalry. The situation was desperate for the Whitecloak Army, as the might of the Illian Army had joined the fray, aiding Altara from the encroaching White Ribbon. A young captain in the Illian Army, supposedly an Andorman, had outwitted Niall, and had cut him off from his supply lines, forcing him East, toward Far Madding. Far Madding certainly had no fear of the Whitecloaks. But Balwer, Chief Economist to the First Counsel, had ridden out because his informants had mentioned that Niall was with this group of soldiers, and because he had put out word that he was in the market for various items of great interest and was looking to cut a deal. The Counsels knew none of this, of course, little of interest occurred in the outside world.

Nonetheless, the Counsels were interested in peace, and when Balwer informed him of the WhiteCloaks approach, he had without altering the truth even a hair, made it seem much more likely than not that the Whitecloaks might approach the city itself. They'd sent him out with a guard of forty men. He had been young then, and seeing his small, wiry frame on a tall gelding, with two score fully armed men would not have been ridiculous.

They met on the Plains of Maredo, near a standing statue, yet another monument to the Queen of Essenia. Niall's cavalry quickly surrounded them, though they numbered only twice that of the Far Madding men. The men's fear was palpable. Though the guards were capable in their own way, at clubbing heads in barroom brawls, none were as tested as the Whitecloak heavy cavalry. Nonetheless, Balwer had been confident that his numbers would be sufficient to ensure peace.

Niall called out from his horse, "Who leads here?"

"I do, my Lord Captain Commander." Niall's eyebrows rose. Balwer did not even wear a sword.

"You're not a Madding man, are you?" Niall's gaze was piercing. In his youth, the man had been a force to be reckoned with, his hair light auburn and wild, his eyes, gray and piercing. Raw recruits had said they saw the Light personified when they beheld him the first time. He learned years later that Niall had carefully engineered that first sighting to be such.

"No, my lord. Actually, last I checked, I believe I am one of your countrymen."

"Last you checked?"

"Kilramir is a border town, my Lord, there is some question of its provenance."

"I recall, I once resupplied there. What do the men of Far Madding want with the Children of the Light. Have they finally renounced their ways of greed?"

"Hardly, my lord. It is on a matter of greed, or shall we say of trade that I rode out to meet you."

"And who are you?" Niall tossed his hair back imperiously. Several cavalry men loosened their swords in their girth straps."

"The Chief Economist, Sebban Balwer, my Lord. I believe we can be of mutual assistance to one another."

Niall squinted, as if remembering something. "I'm not sure I know what that is, Chief Balwer, but I suddenly recalled a tale told to me in Kilramir, of an accountant fleeing the law."

"The law was crooked, my Lord."

"It was indeed, I took the Sherrif's hand myself."

Balwer had paled, a man of such unbridled violence was hardly healthy to be around. Niall then commanded his troop to halt, and had men pitch a small two man tent for them to discuss in privacy. It turned out that Balwer had much to offer Niall. He knew a pass through the hills, into Murandy that could take him back to his army. He also knew of a grain suppository where the Manatherandrelle met the river Shorn, that owed Far Madding a considerable amount. Three hours later, both men emerged, sweaty from the close confines of the tent. One with a treaty of Non-Aggression, and a price of wheat locked in for five years, the other with a safe route back to his army, and a guaranteed resupply.

Overall, Balwer couldn't have been happier. As the men prepared to mount and part ways, Niall had approached the man with a speculative look.

"Master Balwer, the Children have no position for a man such as yourself. We have no Chief Economist, nor any Economist for that matter. But, for a man of your experience, and obvious talents, maybe we can make some sort of arrangement."

Balwer cocked his head, for all the world like a small bird. "I must tender my resignation, my lord, but I believe such an offer would be of interest."

From there, back into the tent, to haggle. Another sweaty hour passed until Niall and he left, Niall searching to make sure his cloak still had the golden sunburst on it.

Balwer sighed, coming back to the present. Thoughts of those days were elegiac, before the world had begun such an obvious decline, impossibly long winters, followed by dry as dust summers.

The work with the Whitecloaks had proved invigorating, yet distasteful. There was an uncommon streak of ignorance in the regular run of Whitecloaks, and were it not for the man that he had come to respect greatly, he likely would have left the Fortress of the Light, years sooner. He had even made such a plan, assuming that Lord Captain Commander Niall would retire from the order. He had made plans to attach himself to Rodel Ituralde, after all, if one Great Captain could be so remarkable, surely another, would be at least as interesting. Particularly a job in a nation on the brink of failure, one that didn't have such insipid cultural biases would prove a vast improvement.

And then had come Morgase. As a Queen, he'd had vast respect for her, as had Pedron Niall, but the Queen had been sadly lacking of late, and instead, their group of refugees had been lead by a willful, caterwauling, forty-year old teenager. He had hoped that the woman would have listened to his advice. He would have had her go back to Andor, to rally support among her people. Perhaps to extend a single red lion claw towards Cairhien. It would have taken time, of course, but it could have been done in the safety of a well-defended nation, with the resources of a large and wealthy House. He would never have believed she would renounce her claim to her throne, or consent to become a lady's maid to a man so obviously of peasant birth. But, he thought grimly, something had been taken from her, by that monster Eamon Valda, and once taken, it was no surprise that Morgase had emerged a broken woman.

Latian approached with the horses, and Medore was already mounted on her Tairen mare, Copita. She cut a buxomy figure against the morning sun.

"Very good, Lord Aybara is leaving for the traveling grounds. We will meet him at the clearing. We will tell him that I have business there, and that you have consented to help, and not give me any of your nonsense. Yes, Laitian, I'm thinking of your nonsense in particular. We must arrive first, so, we ride."

With that, the little man mounted his own mare, and the two followed him at a trot.


	4. Chapter 4

_"My Lord; my Lady First," Balwer said in that dry voice, ducking a bow in his saddle, a sparrow bobbing on a branch. His eyes flickered toward the Aes Sedai behind them, but that was the only sign he gave that he was aware of the sisters. "My Lord, I recalled that I have an acquaintance in this So Habor. A cutler who travels with his wares, but he may be at home, and I've not seen him in several years."_

_"And your companions, Master Balwer?" Berelain's face stayed smooth inside her fur-lined cowl._

_"They wanted an outing, my Lady First," the bony little man replied blandly. "I will vouch for them, my Lord. They've promised to cause no trouble, and they may learn something."_

Perrin considered, looking briefly at Berelain. Balwer knew the rumors regarding he and she were utter fabrication. If the lord had asked him, he could have stymied them himself, with a couple of well placed bribes, and a few untimely rumors regarding certain thefts that had occurred. He might yet do so anyway, but Perrin's bizarre sense of honor could cause a problem.

_"We're wasting time," Perrin said, "Open the gateway Neald."_

_The black clad man lifted his arm, and a silvery vertical slash spun into existence. Opening wide enough to allow the largest cart and wagon through. _ The procession began. Idly, as they waited their turn, Balwer considered the implications. He had never desired to be a channeler. Even, had the Dark One's taint not been a certainty, the power to crush a living being without breaking a sweat was no temptation to him. But there were times when he felt a little jealous. Aes Sedai could create wards to guard their voices from being overheard, for example. Though he had long ago learned to read lips, it still seemed a most useful tool. More than anything of course, the thought of being able to Travel, nearly brought tears to his eyes. The world, at his finger tips at last. He wouldn't have to rely on the often garbled account of a spy, he could see the truth himself! Worse though, he realized that such a skill could very well make his craft obsolete. To collect information directly from his informants would give him almost instant power over the world. So lost in wonder was he, that he almost missed something Medore said. She was staring at him.

"—see it either. But, maybe she likes older men."

"Older men! He's old enough to be her father." Latian sputtered.

Medore turned her stunning heavy lidded blue eyes on the young lordling. "I like older men too, Latian, they're much more mature."

Latian swallowed deeply. He was a year or two older than Medore. He puffed out his chest, but she broke his bubble quickly. "Not you, fool, you act like a thirteen year old!"

"What?!"

"Eyes, Latian, look at my eyes."

"Oh. Sorry." He had the grace to color in embarrassment. Medore was gifted in that regard.

"Look, if you really like her, you should say something, or bring her a gift."

Balwer tuned their mindless chatter out. He only hoped that the members of Cha Faile would have the sense to keep their relationships, short, discreet, and internal. Spy work was perhaps the only job where relationships within the organization were encouraged. Yes, Traveling would be a great boon. It was a pity that Channelers of both ilk were so touchy about the idea of being little more than messengers. Couldn't they see that the greatest asset they had was in the information they could procure? Not in the size of the lighting bolt, or fireball they could throw?

At last, it was their turn through the breach in the pattern. Balwer relished the experience, but a moment later he was all business, looking about. Yes, he thought he had a rough idea where he was. They had entered onto a large snowy field, with a farmer's low stone wall surround them several hundred paces in each direction. The convoy soon churned the snow to frozen mud, but they found a road and set out toward So Habor.

When the convoy reached the city walls, Balwer and his two companions drew off to the side. The walls were massive for a town of this size. A large outer wall, thick enough to withstand catapult fire, and a taller, narrower inner wall, from which towers and crenellations rose. They could see men manning the walls, which, after the emptiness of the countryside was a relief. The castle had been built in the modern style, but much of the frame had been standing, remnants to an earlier age. Balwer could see where the stones of the old keep differed sharply with the stones of the new. He had forgotten how wealthy So Habor was. He called to mind what he knew.

Lord Cowlin ruled here now, son of Lord Caerlin, son of Cayranth. The present lords had taken the town during the Hundred Years War, and been granted title by the Throne of the Winds for their efforts, though the government of Altara in truth could do little to dislodge them. The town dealt in grains largely, collected from the leagues of farms that surrounded it. They had traded with Salidar, and with So Eban largely, but in recent years, with the abandonment of the former, had sold their grain as far south as the capital, and as far north Jehanna and Lugard. Lord Cowlin was said to be a vain man, and much ruled by his appetites. He was perennially in debt to the merchant counsel, the grain factors, who ruled the town in truth. Such debt was reciprocal, as the Lord was the merchants premier investor.

Queen Tylin's troops hadn't been seen this far north, ever. They likely didn't even have warm enough cloaks to make the journey. The rumor was that the Seanchean now controlled this territory. And indeed, they were outside the walls but mere minutes when they saw one of the Seanchean flying lizard birds. Balwer sighed. Yet another way of learning information that he was denied.

His sigh was heard by Kireyin, the Ghealdanin captain, and earned Balwer a glare. He bobbed his head agreeably, soldiers and nobles assumed that deference implied superiority. Balwer knew that deference and the appearance of deference were entirely different things. Perrin approached the wall with Berelain, introductions were made. Then came the hoarse reply from above.

_"How do we know you're alive?"_

A stir ran through the assembled men. The surrounding villages had been empty, a veritable ghost town. Balwer didn't think that wass to what he had been referring. Seonid Sedai was having none of it. She called up to the crossbow man most irately. Though it wasn't the politest manner of gaining entrance, it proved most parsimonious, and the gates began to swing inward. The hinges squealed like pigs before the slaughter. That itself startled Balwer, what he recalled the most about So Habor was its crisp order. It was a bustling center of commerce, it was not a town that shirked it's hinges. He glanced at his new Lord, Aybara sat his horse, for all the world like a rock, but his head was cocked slightly, his lips parted, breathing deeply. Good man, he knows something is up, thought Balwer.

A stench followed the opening of the gates. All must know now that something was keeping So Habor, up a night, the stench was rotten, filth, garbage, and human excrement. He wrinkled his nose. Behind him Medore emptied her stomach and Latian gagged.

"Come. Lord Perrin has his work, we have ours." The Wolf Guard, the Ghealdanin, and the Mayeners made for the Central Square, where an inn called the Golden Barge did its custom. Balwer took advantage of the confusion, to direct his two hench people down a small alley.


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_**_ This chapter takes something of a dark turn, and involves sexual abuse. If a sensitive topic for you, read forewarned. This turn departs from the tone and voice of the canon. However, RJ always had a soft touch for life's more terrible moments, and in both of my stories so far, I attempt to show that human nature remains the same, with or without the source, or the Dark One_. _I remain a great believer in the human spirit, and in our ability to grow, past the traumas inflicted on us._ _Thanks to Tremail for all the great reviews! Also, I've started a community board for Lesser Known Characters, so submit your stories to me and I will add them!_

* * *

Selande Darengil was hopelessly smitten. She was utterly ashamed of that fact, but she was still pragmatic enough to know it and understand it. Rather than give into it, she plied her new craft obsessively. She had taken Balwer's lessons to the core, the man was a wealth of knowledge on gathering information. She was loyal to the Lady Faile for taking them in, more than she could ever know, but the Lady's Saldaean directness, her tendency for blunt words and quick action hadn't trained Cha Faile very well for being the Lady's eyes and ears. Balwer had been a godsend for them. The dried up little man had a light touch, and was able to see without being seen. He could forge anyone's hand after seeing it once, he could pick any lock, on a casement window, a rusted shanty, or even a lady's jewelry box. He moved soundlessly, she'd even heard Sulin joke once about being made Gai'shain by the wiry man.

Moreover, he was an excellent teacher, though he could be vexatious when she failed to pick up on something the second time around. Fortunately for both of them, she was an excellent student.

So excellent in fact, that she had soundlessly followed them to the Gateway grounds, and had come as far as So Habor without being noticed by any but the Aiel. She knew she was insane for disobeying Balwer's commands, but she had been shadowing him for the past two months every time he left camp. So far, it hadn't interfered with her own duties, much, and there was just so much to learn!

One thing that Balwer had told her, "When entering a new place, know your exits and entrances. Even at the possibility of losing a mark. You could lose him inside and not know if he left, or how. Worse, you could get caught, trapped, or killed. Always know your exits, and keep one eye on the door." So before entering So Habor she had begun to scout the town. She'd noticed several Maidens doing the same thing, and felt a surge of pride at being something of a Maiden herself.

Selande Darengil had left her home at the age of 15. At the age of 13, during the Feast of Lights, she and her elder brother had sneaked away from Darengil Manor, and began wandering through the Foregate. It was in the Foregate that it happened, an event that changed her, her life, and her personality forever. A randy Foregater with a goat's mask had tried to grope her on the street and her older brother had broken the man's arm. He whisked her to an alleyway to protect her, but the sights and smells of naked Cairhien had stirred something dark and unpleasant within him. He took advantage of her there, all the while whispering how he wanted to protect her and keep her safe. Since it was the Foregate, and since it was the Feast of Lights, no one had come to her defense.

The next two years had been a misery. Her parents were no help. Her mother dismissed her, and her father, hoping to sell her off to wife, required that she never speak of it. Her brother, of course, was the house heir, and was allowed to do exactly as he pleased. Then there had been that embarrassing incident at Lord Dobraine's second wedding. Her best friend, Breane Taborwin, had been all but locked up, was nearly retired to the country in disgrace. Meanwhile, her own shame was public now, and her father, in cold fury, had demanded that she leave. He was a prideful man, with a quick temper. He had rebuilt House Darengil after his grandfather had nearly bankrupted the House. His rage, once spent, had left him, and he begged her to return after she left. But the damage had been done, and with her brother Sallic still the heir apparent, she decided that she could never go home.

She spared a thought for Breane. It was odd. She had passed the woman a dozen times at Lord Aybara's camp, and she had ignored all entreaties to resume their friendship. In fact, she utterly ignored Selande. But perhaps Breane was right, that a clean break was the best kind.

She had stayed with Breane for nearly six months, at the Taborwin estates outside the city, when her liege lady, Colavaere had found her. The meeting had started out pleasantly enough.

"Selande, darling," Colavaere had sipped an Andoran dry red, the Hel Chalice, from an ornate crystal goblet. The Taborwins had the means to entertain Colavaere, and the desire to see her best pleased. Breane had been politely dismissed, so Selande could have a moment with her cousin. "Your lord father is simply out of his mind with concern. Are you sure you won't go home?"

"No my lady," she shuddered, remembering, "not while my brother is there."

With Colavaere's bare shoulder and fine Sea Folk silk dress to cry on, the whole wretched story came out. After the Feast of Lights, her brother Sallic had taken his "due as heir" on several other occasions when he could be sure that they would be undisturbed. The boy she thought she knew was utterly gone by then. Something dark and twisted had taken him. And he promised worse. Colavaere had held her as she wept, and murmured thoughtful words to her. When at last the racking sobs were finished for the moment, Colavaere took her by the shoulders.

"It's settled, you must come live with me. We'll dine on the finest foods, we'll have Illian mussel's, Tairen crabcakes, and the finest Andorian golden apples. Oh goodness, have you ever tasted a Red Fusk? It's a melon from Tremalking that's as big as Lady Gawdwin's bust! To die for, you simply must! We'll have such fun, Selande. You can be like my sister! We'll talk about all the men we hate, and all the power we want, and all the riches we will have."

"Really?" Said the young Selande, breathlessly. "I don't need riches, or power… I just want to feel safe again, to feel loved again."

"Oh, and you will darling. I love you to pieces already. But remember, getting power is how you get safe, and getting riches are how you get power. But don't listen to this silly old maid talking. Oh, we'll have so much fun, we'll throw a ball in your honor, and you can see your friend Breane whenever you want."

She went on like that for some time, and Selande, more fool than ever, had believed her. The first two years had gone swimmingly, just as the Lady had promised. There were dances, promenades, the Cairhienien Opera, mummers, jugglers, and great parties. Colavaere was so much richer than it's tributary house, House Darengill. She saw her family from time to time, she had even seen her brother, at one occasion. Colavaere had iced the young lord deliberately, on behalf of Selande.

On her 17th birthday, Selande was more beautiful than ever. Luxurious dark hair fell in waves, over her lush teenager's body. It was to be her Debutante ball, the night she came on the market officially to young suitors. Many young ladies had already been promised away by the age of 17, but Colavaere, and Selande's reputation had kept certain suitors away. Colavaere had filled her mind with the possibilities of all the young men who would flock to marry her.

The night of the ball, Selande had met Colavaere in her chambers. The woman was deathly pale, her eyes wide, she seemed to be scared to death.

"Oh Colavaere, whatever has happened, you look like you saw a ghost!"

The older woman ostentatiously dabbled a silk handkerchief, "oh child, it's nothing. A young girl like yourself, who's suffered so much… I couldn't tell you."

Selande's heart nearly broke, "Oh please Colavaere, you've done so much for me. Really, you must tell me, we can work it out together."

"Child, you really are too sweet for this world. No. Such a matter is not for you. You are too innocent, we must protect you from the world."

Selande had taken a deep breath at that point, she was hardly an innocent. Not anymore. Or so she thought. "Dear Colavaere, just tell me what is wrong, please?"

The lady sobbed for a moment, then turned toward the young woman, make up streaking down her elegant features. "It's Doressin Chuliandred. That beast."

"Has he been troubling you about the Piedmont Tributaries again?"

The Piedmont Tributaries were a little spit of land that belonged to House Saighan, and fed the River Gaelin. Though the lands were close to the Spine of the World, they were incredibly fertile, and it was a prominent area for the great Cairhienien vineyards. Saighan produced a dozen vintages in that area alone, Bertome Estates, Sun Valley Red, and Saighan's Best, were some of the more well known vineyards in the region.

Colavaere laughed, a throaty, bitter sound. "So innocent," she whispered. "The boar wants to bed me. Apparently his interest in the tributaries was trumped by his interest in the 'Estuary' of Saighan." She gestured graphically at her groin.

Selande was shocked. But she knew men. She nearly vomited the thought made her so ill. Abruptly, she filled with murderous rage. "We'll kill him. We'll have him killed."

"Oh, you silly girl. I knew I shouldn't have told you. House Chuliandred is too important to Saighan at this time. We can't risk it, we can't risk exposure. No. No, I'm afraid, I must do what all woman have done. What all women have done since time immemorial, I must lay back and think of the good of House Saighan. Oh! And today is your debutante ball! Oh such a fool I am! To spoil such a wonderful day." They were clutching one another now.

Selande had started to cry. That this magnificent and wonderful lady could be the victim of such a man, that for all her power, her wealth, she should still be held hostage to his salacious, made her positively ill. She made a decision.

"He wants to bed you. But he cannot. If he did so, he would have leverage over you, and House Saighan till the day he died. Let me do it. I can do this for you, Lady Colavaere, as payment for all the wonderful things you've done for me."

Colavaere lifted her eyes upward to the young girl, face streaming dark tears. "I couldn't. I couldn't allow…"

"When is Doressin supposed to be here?"

"Tonight, my dear." Colavaere whispered.

And something in Selande suddenly died. This, of all nights, the night she escaped from her past, the night she escaped from the girl she had been made into by a familial betrayal.

"Consider it done." She said starkly.

And Selande had been true to her word.

Unfortunately, Colavaere had not. Years later, she found out that Colavaere had promised her young protégé to Doressin, in exchange for a pledge of support: just a pledge, for mere words. And Selande's downward spiral had continued. It was not the last time she was used to support House Saighan. And the truly sickening part was that she had believed Colavaere for years following that night. Believed, because she had to, she believed because the truth would have destroyed her mind.

The cycle had broken when Colavaere had tried to use her to collect the Dragon Reborn. The man who had refused her. The man had terrified her intentionally, to send her away. That had never happened before. And after that, things had been different. When Colavaere next asked her to meet with a man, she refused. It wasn't long after that she was made to leave Colavaere's mansion. But by then, now in her early twenties, the Aiel had taken Cairhien, and the Societies were born. She had joined up right away. To learn to protect herself with a sword meant freedom.

Selande's abrupt reverie ended with a start. The wall that surrounded So Habor, indeed the town itself, was in a flood plain. And rain and river water, while greatly enhancing the soil, must have been hard on So Habor's walls. So a series of drainage ditches had been dug around them. All covered with iron grates. While she had noticed the grates earlier, what had stopped her, was that the grate on this one, nearly behind the main gate, half a mile from the rest of the camp, had been taken off and put back on.

She moved forward to examine it more closely. She pulled out a piece of rough paper from her kit, and a bit of charcoal, and started roughly coloring the paper in, on top of the edges of the grate. She quickly noticed that the grate had a series of rough marks cut into each side. It had been tampered with, to be removed. So Habor had a Thieves Gate, a LonnGang.

She thought for a moment. Then, she pulled out a broken arrow from inside her pack, and an extra shirt she had been meaning to wash. Within moments, she had the makings of a makeshift torch. Then taking a quick glance to make sure she was unobserved, by gate guards or by others on the snowy plain, she opened the grate, and swung inside it.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** _I must say that without the Wheel of Time Wiki, this story would have been very difficult to write. So hat tip to its creators, maintainers, and posters. And, I hope they read my story, one of the fruits of their work! This chapter deepens the mystery surrounding So Habor, and about what happened to the Cutler, Marcus Grostlby._

* * *

Balwer was perturbed by what had become of So Habor. Rumors of these "bubbles of evil" had percolated through almost his entire network. He had given them little credence at first, but he'd seen a few himself now, and he was a believer. Sebban Balwer had never been required to swear the Oaths that the Children of the Light took, yet he nonetheless felt he sheltered in the Creator's palm. He gave alms, when he could (he frequently pretended to be a beggar, and he knew the life) and his service with the Children had seen many bonafide Darkfriends hung. Unlike Asawuna and his Questioners, Balwer only ever pointed the finger when he knew beyond a reasonable doubt.

Looking about So Habor, one had the distinct feeling that this town had abandoned the Light. It was an odd thing to think, and it was a feeling, more so than a fact. Feelings made Balwer very uncomfortable. Unbidden, an image of Selande, her beautiful pale face framed by dark waves of hair. He cursed himself. Why now? In the pickling kettle, and thinking of a girl half his age, he thought incredulously. He hadn't considered any woman as more than a mark or an asset in over a decade.

Looking around, he saw that they were unobserved in the alley. It was a particularly foul place now that So Habor was in such terrible condition, but it would do. He dismounted gingerly, and the two others followed suit. He rummaged in his pack, withdrawing a small shard of mirror, and the paints from his wetbox. Medore and Latian stared at him curiously. Then he began to transform. With a few minor dabs of dirt, a slight change to his coloring, a sallowness added, and accentuation on his cheekbones, Balwer was suddenly a poor tradesman who had lost his stock. He added items to his clothing, a kerchief over his head, a gold earing on his right ear. He changed from his boots to a pair of dirty moccasins, and made a few other alterations.

Medore and Latian were utterly astonished.

"Sometimes subterfuge is necessary. I have been to this town before, I do not intend to be recognized before we find our mark. To complete the costume, we must touch both of you up as well."

He put a rude blush on Medore's cheeks, and outlined her eyes with a darker shade. She was suddenly more alluring, if a trifle brassy. With the consummate grace of a master, he unbuttoned her blouse almost halfway before she could get in a word. He attached a puffed out skirt to her waist. It matched her top well enough that she was able to wear her tight riding pants beneath it. Again, he assaulted her person, pulling her hair out of the carefully arranged Aiel pony tail.

He thrust the mirror at her. She gasped, regarding herself. "You are not a whore," he said in his scratchy voice, "but you are, and have been, a desperate woman."

Turning to Latian, his ministrations were more obvious. He had the man withdraw his sword from its concealment within his saddlebags. Then he loosened his sword belt, he tore off some of the buttons of his striped Cairhienien short coat, and opened it entirely, revealing the boiled leather cuirass beneath. Some dirt splotches, and a nasty sore on the side of his cheek. He looked at the young Cairhienien lord, critically.

"You do know how to use that thing, do you not?" He said in disgust, gesturing at the sword.

The young man bristled, his sharp nose quivering in indignation. Balwer sighed, he didn't have time to smooth a young man's ego. "You're a mercenary, you're accompanying me, but I'm not paying you particularly well. You're hoping I'll let you have a go at Medore for your trouble. You can play that part of the role I assume." Latian blew Medore a kiss, which she paid in kind by elbowing him in the gut.

Balwer continued to study Latian. "Stop looking so noble. Slouch, let your left shoulder down, looser than your right. Lean, do not stand. Smirk, do not smile. When you're bored, clean your nails with your dagger. Sharpen it when you're hungry."

The effect was remarkable, from strutting young peacock, the young man became suddenly much more dangerous in appearance. Balwer's nod was short and businesslike. Latian's face was thoughtful, Medore's openly admiring.

"Now, as I said, we are going to visit a cutler. This cutler owes me money, and I intend to take it from him in the form of wares. Maybe a few bruises for good measure." Latian stared at him. "That's my character, idiot. The cutler informs me of certain goings on in this part of the world. I haven't heard from him in over a year, and we're paying him a visit. If he's dead, I'll know to stop paying the pigeonmaster. If he's alive, I'll know if he's been turned to another's uses. If he can't be found, I'll find out why. Now, when we leave the alley, no one will recognize us unless they really look. So try not to be seen."

Balwer lead them out into the sunshine again. Even the light had a gray, washed out feeling to it. It took some questioning, but he managed to find his bearings, and found out that the cutler, Marcus, still maintained a residence in So Habor. As he walked, his mind wandered back over a decade, to when he'd last been here. Lord Cowlin had just succeeded his father, and there had been a celebration of sorts. Though the festivities had not been for the common people, they had been granted a day off, and therefore much carousing had filled the city streets. It had been a much different city then, he thought eyeing a people who seemed to scurry like mice, barely glancing up at three strangers.

What had happened here? What had changed So Habor? He felt the old tickle in the back of his brain, the allure of a puzzle needing to be solved. It had ever been thus, for the small man. First the tickle, then the rush, then the driving obsession. He supposed it had something to do with the town of his birth. Kilramir was never the same city twice, and if you blinked you might well be missing something distinctly different. Perhaps it had been his father's profession as bookkeeper. The understanding of accounts had been integral to his upbringing, and to most people it seemed a complete mystery. Money was what you had in your pocket, savings was what you kept in your shoe. And yet, whole kingdoms could topple from improperly managed expense accounts. But that was only a small part of it. He supposed ultimately, it was the joy he took from the world. Some called him dry, unemotional, a banker, a reporter, a register, but given the enormity of the world, and the sheer mountain of data passing him by at any present moment, it seemed that the world really did need a register. Most men were born and then died in the same town with little or no record of their entire existence, once those who remembered him had passed. But at least, with Balwer, men could know that their beings were represented in some small way as a tickmark on his books. It was a pity more men couldn't appreciate such a consideration. Most seemed to want a statue in Tammaz Square. There would be no statues erected bearing Sebban Balwe'rs slight visage. And that was precisely how he wanted it to remain.

At several points, they paused to ask for more directions. A pattern began to take shape, as information began to appear unbidden. People had gone missing, and in the morning there were often bloody remains in the streets. Talk of ghosts was on everybody's lips, and nearly everyone they met stopped to tug on their sleeves. Lord Cowlin was gone. No, he was here, but he hadn't been seen outside of his mansion. No, he was dead, and the town was lordless. Though the rumors were wild and completely unsubstantiated, there was a desperation to these people that made Balwer's skin crawl. He hoped that Perrin's negotiation for grain was going well. His new lord must be feeling very uncomfortable here. Aybara had an almost inhuman sensitivity to things, it would have made him a good spy.

At last, they approached the Cutler's home. Grostlby had traveled with his wares, and thus had not maintained a storefront, merely a glass casing with some samples of his work hanging within. There was a thick coat of dust on the pieces within. This was looking worse and worse. They knocked. And waited. They knocked again, this time Latian banging on the door with his sword hilt.

Just as Balwer was about to remove his lockpick from his bag, they could hear motion from the other side. There was the sound of a lock, the sound of a bolt, another lock, and then the dragging of something large and heavy from behind the door. Finally, the door opened a crack, wide enough for one eye to be seen. A girl's eye, if he was not mistaken.

"Is Master Grostlby at home? I'm an associate of his from years back. I was hoping to –"

The voice, was thin, almost a sigh. "He's not here."

Balwer was undeterred, "Child, are you …" he thought for a moment, rifling through his impressive memory for detail, "Posy? Marcus spoke frequently of his one and only daughter."

The door opened slightly further, revealing the pale face of a thirteen year old girl.

"Child, I was a friend of your father's and hadn't heard from him in some time, I was worried, and have traveled a long distance to get here. I came because I am concerned for his well being."

At last the door opened. The girl gave a small start at Latian's more martial appearance, and another for Medore.

"Do not worry about them, Posy, we are in disguise. Perhaps you knew of your father's fondness for pigeoncraft? I was one of those with whom he communicated most frequently."

After a long moment, the space between the door and the wall emptied. Balwer motioned to Medore and Latian to follow. Once inside, they were within a dark hallway that smelled heavily of old dust. They drew past the girl, and she closed the door, sliding the locks back into position. Latian helped her with the heavy bolt, and then with a small empty safe, which was apparently what had been blocking the door.

The girl then led the way through the darkened house. The curtains were drawn in almost every room. The workshop door was closed. The furnishings in the parlor were covered in sheets to protect them from the pervasive dust. At last a few flickering lights ahead, indicated the kitchen. They were met by a matronly looking woman, Sharon Grostlby. The years had not been kind to her, or rather, the last year had not been kind to her. The kitchen was the only marginally clean room he'd seen since entering So Habor, but a glance at some of the cupboards indicated that many were bare. Also, oddly, two pallets had been made in the corner of the room.

"Master Beamcraft, it is good to see a familiar face." She smiled tiredly, but, a wild and feral look appeared in her eyes for a moment, she then reached out and tugged at the sleeve of his shirt.

"Yes, Sharon, I am alive." Balwer said it calmly, but behind him he could hear Latian's snort. He would have to talk to the boy. He had his doubts about these ghosts himself, but one should never mock a mark's sincere beliefs, particularly when one needed their trust.

"How fares the world?" She said in relief. Posy filed in behind them and busied herself in the cupboards, preparing to make tea.

Balwer launched into a quick synopsis of the state of the world. He mentioned the Shaido rampaging through the countryside, that Amador had been overrun by the Seanchean, and that most of Altara was likewise snapped up by the foreign invaders. He made no mention of Perrin, or the Dragon Reoborn.

Finally he wound down, and inquired about Marcus; whereabouts.

"Marcus…"

"Sharon, I would help you if I can. There is something wrong with So Habor, I need to know more about it if I can help your family."

A look of despair washed over the woman's features. "There is no help," she whispered, "my dreams…"

"Father came back from a trip six months previous." Posy had gained a little spirit in the face of her mother's quailing one.

"So he is here." Balwer stated, "but you said."

"The lord asked him to his residence about a month after his return, we have not seen him since."

Latian interrupted, "Why would the lord summon a cutler?"

Everyone but Medore looked at him as if he were obtuse. "I guess he needed some cutlery repaired," came the slow, almost wry answer, said Sharon seeing Latian for the first time. "It was his man, of course, Sherbrooke. The man looked something awful, but everyone does nowadays."

Balwer looked carefully at Sharon, "that was almost five months ago. When you went to the manor what did they tell you?"

She began to look uncomfortable. "At first they told me that his work would take longer than expected. I knew it was a lie, Marc had barely taken anything with him, but I thought, ole Cowly's a lord, he must have ample supplies, probably a forge of his own. But after the end of the first month, with no word, I knew something was wrong. I begged and cried," she sounded upset, but not necessarily over the evident loss of her husband, "but he's a lord."

"That's when Sherbrooke came a calling." Posy's tone was snide. Her mother shot her a viperous glare.

"The Lord's man? To tell you of Marcus? Why, Posy, did he come?"

"He came for mum." She said, returning her mother's glare. There was something wrong here. Very wrong.

"Enough Posy, go to your room." The girl went pale as a sheet. "Mum…"

A nasty gleam entered her eyes. "Go to your room, girl!" She scrambled for a rolling pin. The girl fled, squealing.

"The man did come, and the man did spout more lies. But after three months, I figured Marcus had left his poor old wife and daughter to fend for themselves. By then of course, we stopped walking about the town, for all but the most necessary of reasons." The goodwife eyed Latian speculatively. "Town's not safe, but in here is, for the most part. I don't suppose you brought any food with you? Better yet, wine?" The woman smoothed her dress out, and casually winked at the Cairhienien lordling. Latian shuddered.

"When was the last time you saw Sherbrooke?" Asked Medore.

Sharon eyed the woman with disdain. "You won't be seeing him no more. At least a month gone. Oh, everyone leaves old Sharon. I don't know where he went, I don't know where any of the young Lord's men went, save those that still walk the walls."

Balwer frowned. This was not the woman he remembered, even though ten years had passed. Ten years did not change a person this much.

"Goodwoman, if I may have a word with my companions…?"

"Certainly, but don't wander too far, it's not safe." She cackled suddenly, an eerie, shrill sound in the halfdarkness.

Balwer drew them into the parlor. "Something is wrong here."

"No kidding," snapped Laitian. He could see Sharon through the doorway, in the light of the single lantern. She was stroking her body in a manner that might have been enticing had the woman been twenty years and forty pounds less.

"We should warn Lord Perrin!" Whispered Medore.

"Lord Perrin is surrounded by several hundred armed men. But yes, I believe we-"

It was then that a blood curdling cry of fear ran through the house. It was the teenager, Posy. The three looked at each other, than at Sharon, still cackling. They raced around the woman, and up the stairs. At the landing, an old woman stared balefully up the stairs at Posy, who was trapped at the landing to the next floor.

Laitian made to push the elderly woman out of the way and ended up flying forward through her, skinning his knees on the steps.

The woman turned to them. They could see now her incorporeal nature. Her form seemed to flicker with darkness. Her eyes were empty, devoid of life. She opened her mouth as if to scream, and the wind picked up at that precise moment, shrieking for all the world like an old woman who had just seen her husband of forty years die in her arms. Her grey hair streamed out behind her like a nest of vipers. The sconces on the walls along the stairs began to rattle, an etching in a glass frame crashed to the ground and went spinning down the steps.

And then the wind was gone. And so was the woman. Posy fell to her knees, weeping uncontrollably. Latian ran up the remaining stairs and swept her up into his arms. Hauling her down over his shoulder like a sack of grain and stepping lightly around the area where the ghost had been. He righted her, but she didn't let go. His eyes were wild, he clung desperately to the young girl, who in turn, clung desperately to him.

"Aye, so that's how it is." Said Sharon. "Young men, and their tastes. Fine, go then. Take the bitch."

Medore, whose jaw had been working soundlessly in fear, recovered herself, "she's your daughter, woman, go to her and comfort her."

Sullenly, the woman went to Posy, and took her into her arms. She began to coo, a haunting melody, that in no way comforted any of them.

Balwer, still rooted to the ground, finally recovered himself. His brain, whirring with activity. "You've seen that woman before?"

Sharon cackled unpleasantly, "old Margie, sure. She owned the house before us. I heard she broke her neck falling down the stairs. And at her age. We leave the top floor to her now, where her bedroom used to be. Oh, she didn't like me and Sherbrooke being up there, oh no!"

"You're insane," whispered Medore.

"We're all mad here." The woman said with a far away look. Suddenly, the weird, wicked look to her eyes disappeared, the strange mania that seized her left. She slumped. "Take my daughter, please, take her away from this awful place." For a moment, she looked like she had when they entered, a worn out, scared to death woman. Than the madwoman was back, "better yet, take me, on the floor, right here."

"Posy," began Medore, "come with us, is there anything you want to take with you?"

The girl had regained her composure. Her tear streaked face looking up at the beautiful Medore. She lead them out of the kitchen back to the door where they came.

"I can't. She's my mom. She's all I have left. And…she isn't always like this. Everyone in town is like this now. I can't just leave her." The young girl looked from Medore to Latian, obviously assuming them to be in charge.

Medore looked at Balwer imploringly.

"It's not my call, the evil that is now in So Habor, might well be in her. Maybe the Aes Sedai could do something with her, but your lord needs you now." Balwer thought for a moment, than sighed. If he knew his new lord at all, he would never turn away a penniless widow and her daughter, particularly not in light of recent developments. That said, Sharon Grostlby was hardly penniless.

"Gather your things, if you can gather your mother, meet us by the main gate in three hours. Our party will depart whether or not you come. I can promise you that the man whom we serve is no Lord Cowlin, and that he will see to your care at his own expense. That is all I can offer you."

And without looking backward at the softly chortling madwoman in the flickering lantern light of the kitchen, Balwer lead his companions to the door, unbolted it himself, and left.


	7. Chapter 7

A few casually asked questions had yielded the answer: Lord Aybara was at the Golden Barge. Balwer knew the place and had lead Latian and Medore to it. On their return trip through the city, the townsfolk looked even more nervous, particularly now that the afternoon sun crowned the heights. In the sharp light, they looked somehow more feral, like a mad dogs with the scent of blood. Pausing outside the doors, he turned to the other two.

"I haven't removed your disguises. Latian, pull up your hood. Medore, undo your hair, and let it cover your face. Lord Perrin has soldiers and Aes Sedai already at work for him. We will see what they cannot. We'll use the original cover, you are my guard, and you are my chattel. We'll get a table far away from the action. Follow my lead."

The Golden Barge was as he remembered it, but off. In good times, the place had been the best place to buy grain in Altara, the Barge also did a swift business in grain futures, and other commodities trading. The tables were still polished, and the murals on the walls still in good repair. Yet there was an inescapable feeling of dinginess, and dissolution. In the center of the room, a large party was having a very audible conversation. It was Perrin's group of course. The young man stood stolid, radiating quiet authority and calm. And it seemed somehow that the room was slightly cleaner around him.

The merchants guild idled around the table, but there was no one else in the room. Some of the guild had moved off to have their own conversations, spoken in hushed, harsh whispers. Others, including a woman, who if Balwer's memory served, would have to be Rahema Arnon, the head of the guild, surrounded Perrin, Berelain, Annoura Sedai and various others.

One of the men had been calling for someone, Speral, clearly a servant of some kind. The man didn't answer, or appear. There were too many missing people in So Habor.

"Pardon me," Balwer touched a nervous man's arm. "I have some business that I believe might interest the grain merchants of So Habor… can we speak more privately? Mister …"

The nervous man, "Mycah. Mycah Adolphus. I am a busy man," he looked quickly around, glancing at Perrin, who stood just ten feet away. Busy indeed, the room must have been empty when Lord Aybara entered. But Balwer knew how to sweeten the pot.

"Argus Beamcraft, at your service. My bargaining concerns a certain Lord Cowlin, I believe I may have something that can profit the town of So Habor."

His eyes, snapped to Balwer's face, seeing it for the first time. Balwer appeared now like to be even paler and greasier than the grain merchants. He licked his lips and smiled with a feral gleam. Far from being perturbed, Adolphus took to him immediately.

"You seem familiar… are you from town?

Balwer's answering smile was even more disgusting. Medore took a step back. Latian's eyes were wide, his new slouch temporarily forgotten.

"Let's just say I have a certain familiarity with what plagues So Habor." Balwer motioned to a side table.

Latian spoke up, "wine. I want some wine too." At another time, Latian's interruption would have irritated Balwer no end, but it was just the sort of thing a mercenary would insist on at such a meeting.

"Indeed, and some for my mistress, if you please."

Mycah grabbed the innkeeper by the shoulder. She had just finished reluctantly bringing a carafe to Lord Perrin. He whispered urgently, and unintelligibly to her and she dashed off. They sat down as far from Perrin's group as possible. Berelain and Perrin were now sampling grain from large vats that one of the merchants had brought.

The four of them sat down in a stall, Mycah and Balwer facing the center of the room, Latian and Medore facing them. The benches had a thick layer of cushioning, and Medore sighed in appreciation. Mycah glanced at her, frankly appreciating her bosom. He reluctantly focused on Balwer.

"What is this thing that you say might profit So Habor."

"First, I must know… how long has it been since anyone has seen Lord Cowlin?"

The man made as if to leave, Balwer had guessed incorrectly. He tried again, using the same tact but with a harder sell. "Please, it is of vital importance if I can help…"

"What makes" Mycah licked his lips again, "you think So Habor needs help."

Balwer hissed at him as if he were a moron. "The ghosts, the disappearances, the fouling of the crops, the bestiality, soon comes the Reaping, and, it's all happening again!" Balwer's expression was filled with urgency, he finished out of breath, evidently panicked.

Mycah let out a breath, and sat back down. "You've seen this before?"

"Oh, you sweet fool, you have no idea what is happening do you? What will pass before the end?" Balwer let a twinge of the hysteria he had felt since seeing the ghost of old Margie, slip into his voice. "You must tell me everything. We haven't a moment to lose!"

The trick, Balwer thought cynically, with angling for information, was to drop a few tidbits that only an insider could know, then add the implication of even more dire knowledge. It reassured the target that he certainly wasn't telling anything the prospector did not already know.

"Yes, yes, I see that. Four months ago, I'd say it started." The innkeeper unceremoniously dumped four pewter mugs and a full carafe of wine. Latian noisily started pouring, taking a long swig when he was done, and grimacing suddenly. Mycah began to shed some of his inherent sleaziness as he spoke. "The Long Summer hadn't affected us as badly, as it did some of our neighbors. We deal mostly in grain, so once it's plucked, processed and stored, it's good for months. We typically sell it throughout the winter, and end up having to burn some at the Year New. This year, given the drought, Rahema thought we could make a killing, if we held out till winter. The prices were good, and only getting better. That's when Sherbrooke, the Lord's man, approached the guild."

"Lord Cowlin is an investor, isn't he?" Asked Balwer. Latian sat up, he feigned an interest in economics, as young dandies often did. Balwer kicked him under the table, _you're a merchant's guard, not a lord_.

"Yes, he is. Almost everyone in the town is, but Cowlin can put up quite a bit more collateral. And we needed a loan, it costs a great deal of money to house all the excess grain, plus, to buy up the local farmers who don't sell to So Habor to keep the prices … "

"Yes, yes, I understand." Balwer interrupted, he didn't need the economics lesson. Lord Cowlin was a shrewd man, by backing the grain merchants gambit, he could likely make well over 20 percent on his investment. However, something didn't quite add up. Thinking furiously, Balwer's brows rose, _given the size of the market_, "that would be an expensive undertaking, even for a Lord."

Mycah frowned. "Well, some of us were concerned, we didn't understand how Cowlin could afford it. Given what he was already indebt to with the Grain Master's Association. He was a wealthy man, but h-"

_Was_ a wealthy man, even Latian caught the slip, sitting up sharply.

"but he kept coming up with the gold. And Rahema said to not ask questions."

Balwer saw the opening he needed. He hissed again, grabbing at the merchant's coat sleeve. "The gold! It must be in the gold! Do you have it? Do you have any on you?"

The merchant blinked in some surprise, than greed made his eyes narrow suspiciously. "What did you say your interest was Master … Beamcraft?"

"I don't want it, you fool, I want to look at it." The merchant remained suspicious, but slowly drew out a fat purse. Fat, which itself was odd, given that the denizens of the Golden Barge, indeed all of So Habor seemed nearly to have starved to death. He withdrew one large gold coin, it seemed almost red in the lamplight.

Balwer stared at it, he didn't recognize the stamp. He was transfixed. All four of them were, the lurid gleam seemed almost to wink at him indolently.

_"I want to see the grain in the warehouses," Perrin announced_.

It broke the spell. Mycah snatched the coin away and looked up worriedly at Mistress Arnon. Over at the large ovular table, chairs creaked backward as the traders arose. Perrin's guards, Gallenne, and the other armed men all prepared to leave. The woman blustered about the necessity of the inspection, but Perrin's firm implacable features, hard as an anvil, brooked no argument. They gave up, visibly deflating. One of the traders put his head down on the table. Mycah, himself nearly whimpered.

"Where is the gold now?" Asked Balwer, impatiently tapping his finger to his thin nose, it was one of the few visible quirks the man had.

Mycah blinked, "It's all over town, of course. Cowlin gave it to us, we used it to pay for the warehouses, to buy out the farmers from So Eban, So Tehar, Malden, all the way down to Jurador. It paid for labor here in town of course…"

"It's everywhere."

Mycah smirked. "Well, it was, much of them it went to, they came here. Farmers all the way down to the Illian Road, abandoning their fields. Most of them spent their gold here and left, but some stayed. That's why the streets are so packed.

"And the disappearances, when did they start? The unquiet dead?"

The man paled. "Soon after the gold started comin' back. I'd say two months back, Old Maron, the foreman of the West Silos, man was a drunkard, hell of a counter though… he used to sometimes end up passing out in the alley behind The Barley Crop. Well he must have done so that night, because when they found him, it was like he'd been eaten by dogs or something. Wasn't much left of him. Sorry lady," Mycah paused, looking at Medore, who curled her lip.

"A Darkhound?" Medore asked, trying to sound tough.

Balwer could have slapped her. Instead, "Pah, next you'll tell me you believe all those rumors about Old Grim and the Last Hunt. Go back to your fairy tales girl." His lie had the desired effect, the incredulous look left Micah's face. But he still squinted at them, suspiciously. "Any body parts missing?"

The doubt left Mycah's face, a look of relief. "Well now that you mention it, there wasn't much whole of Old Maron, but his head and left arm were clean gone. Sorley identified him by a tattoo on his right arm, and the leathers he'd been wearing that night at the Crop.

"Teeth marks?"

Mycah nodded soberly, we assumed at first that maybe someone's dog had gone rabid, it happens sometimes. But people began seeing things at night. Something… else" Mycah trailed off, his eyes going wild. Suddenly he recalled himself. "Master Beamcraft, you said you had something for us. What do you want?" Mycah was suddenly forceful, nearly overturning his mug.

Balwer knew the game was up, he leaned forward intently, "Listen, I'll tell you what you must do."

Latian and Medore listened in growing amazement as Balwer, seemingly from the air, spun out an intricate and masterful plan that would have seemed utterly ludicrous had their cover not relied on it. It involved barrels of grain, oil, over two dozen men, three women's dresses, nearly thirty small rodents, and two grey kittens. When it was done, Mycah stared at Balwer slack-jawed. Perhaps it was at the price. Balwer had named a hefty sum, he thought it appropriate for a plan that was supposed to save the town, but the residents of So Habor were known for their greed. They wouldn't believe it if the price didn't seem commensurate with their expectations. Plus, it entailed this strange gold of theirs.

Perrin's company had left, minutes ago, and the bar was more or less empty save for them, the innkeeper, furtively peeking out of the kitchens, and one other merchant who was snoring gently. Balwer itched to leave this place as well, and he could sense Medore and Latian feeling similarly. Nonetheless, a good cover must be preserved.

"You must promise me that you will do these things. A great evil has been unleashed! If you do nothing, it could envelope the whole town." Balwer put urgency and burgeoning hysteria in his voice, he figured whatever wild animal was loose in this town, he didn't want to be here with it. He continued to insist, the combination of seemingly mysterious knowledge, the bizarre and detailed plan, and his clear agitation finally did the trick. The four of them stood, Mycah shook Balwer's hand, and went to wake up the merchant sleeping on the table. The three spies quietly left the building.


End file.
